


we all come home in the end

by sherlockislovely



Series: love, after all... [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Older John, Older Sherlock, Semi-Retired Sherlock?, Sherlock being Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 05:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13517589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockislovely/pseuds/sherlockislovely
Summary: He fell down onto the couch and let his cane fall along with him. The doctor glared at the offending object for a moment before he lifted his eyes to take in the familiar room.“Sherlock?” John called, getting only a grunt in response from the bedroom, “Did you clean?”





	we all come home in the end

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a short companion piece to part one of this series, which I couldn't stop thinking about while I should've been paying attention in lecture. Not edited, so I'm just gonna hope errors are few and far between.  
> I wasn't planning on writing this, so the format is not quite the same, but eh.

John readjusted his grip on his walking cane, his fist squeezing the handle tensely. He glanced up at the door of the flat for a moment before looking over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was pulling their bags from the back of the cab.

“Do you need help?”

Sherlock shook his head as the strap of a bag fell down his arm and tugged his body slightly toward the ground, “No, no. I’ve got it.” John snorted at the sight of the semi-retired detective being bested by duffles and suitcases.

“I’m not decrepit, Sherlock, I can carry a bag or two.” John huffed and attempted to cross his arms, before realizing the difficulty of the movement while holding the cane. Sherlock ignored his comment and slammed the door of the cab. He made toward the door of 221, but paused and started the looking around, lifting the bags away from his arms.

“Where did I put the key? I know I had it-“ Sherlock frowned as John shoved his hand into Sherlock’s coat pocket and pulled out the key to the flat. He gave John a disapproving look, to which John rolled his eyes and limped over to the door and slid the key into the lock. Sherlock eyed his back from the sidewalk before John turned to see if he was following. The doctor squinted at him and tilted his head.

“Sherlock Holmes, are you staring at my arse?”

Sherlock looked up and grumbled, finally moving his feet toward the doorway. He paused as he caught up to John and tilted up his chin, “I’m married to that arse, I’m allowed to look at it,” he said, before sweeping off through the door and toward the stairs. John shook his head, a small smile quirking up the side of his mouth. Sherlock disappeared around the landing and John took a breath and steadied himself before slowly making his way up the flight.

-

By the time John walked through the door of the living area of the flat, he was right exhausted, a fact that thoroughly made him resent his useless legs. He fell down onto the couch and let his cane fall along with him. The doctor glared at the offending object for a moment before he lifted his eyes to take in the familiar room.

“Sherlock?” John called, getting only a grunt in response from the bedroom, “Did you clean?”

The room did look uncomfortably clean, and perhaps he should have been delighted. How many times had he told Sherlock to dust or tidy his books or clean up his experiments? Even in their aging ways, Sherlock still tended to err on the side of chaotic order and the tidiness of a tornado. It was unsettling, then, to see the flat in such pristine condition, void of chemical spills or make-shift crime boards pinned to the wall. Like he had come back home, but it wasn’t really home.

Sherlock’s head popped out from the kitchen entryway a moment later.

“You’re upset.” His expression was a mask of confusion as he looked between John and the cleaner-than-usual room.

“No, I’m not.” John retorted, leaning forward minutely on his perch on the edge of the sofa.

“Yes, you are. You’re clenching your fist and you’re making that face you make when my experiments stink up the flat,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he stepped out of the kitchen and took a step toward John.

“I’m not upset!” John tensed as he slunk back against the couch, his head hitting softly against the cushions, “Imagine I said that without shouting.”

Sherlock stepped around the coffee table and nudged John’s leg with his knee. John shifted over to make more room and the detective lowered himself to the empty space. He placed a hand on John’s knee, rubbing his thumb soothingly over the top of the kneecap. They sat in silence for a few minutes, before John kicked the cane on the floor softly.

“I hate that thing.”

“I don’t mind it,” Sherlock replied, squeezing John’s knee affectionately, “It reminds me of when we met.” John looked up and watched Sherlock’s mouth form a smile and he eyes shift back and forth from the doctor’s eyes to his lips. John leaned into Sherlock’s body and wrapped an arm around his waist.

“You’re a fuckin sap.”

“Only for you,” Sherlock mumbled into John’s hair, just before pressing a kiss to his scalp. John closed his eyes and pushed his face into Sherlock’s neck. He smelled a little bit like the hospital, partially like grass, most mostly he smelled like Sherlock. Like his expensive shampoo and musky but somehow floral aftershave. He smelled like home.

John sighed and felt himself melt into Sherlock’s body, relaxing into the idea of being home. He could almost have fallen asleep, but a moment later he tensed at the feeling of Sherlock’s chest shaking.

“Sherlock?” He pulled away to meet Sherlock’s eyes, only to see them shining and overflowing, “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

Sherlock looked startled as he blinked the tears away like he hadn’t realized they were there in the first place. A visible shiver went through him and John searched his face worryingly. Sherlock put a hand on John’s cheek and held it still there.

“I almost lost you,” his voice was meek and broken, “When you fell that day, I thought- I thought you…” The tears built up again and a lone droplet ran a track down his cheekbone. His hand gripped John’s face harshly, “I almost lost you,” he repeated. His head fell, and he looked down at his lap.

“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry,” John put his index finger under Sherlock’s chin and lifted it up to him once again, “I know this has been hard for you, and I’ve been awful, and god, Sherlock, you’re a saint. I don’t know how you’ve put up with me. Come here,” John put one hand on Sherlock’s neck and the other stayed around his waist as he pulled him close, “I’m home, and I love you. I love you, I love you.” He emphasized each proclamation with a kiss to Sherlock’s neck, then the top of his cheekbone, then the last to his lips.

Sherlock’s mouth tasted like salty tears and coffee, and John only wanted more of him. He wanted every laugh, every smile, every cry, and shout, and everything in between. He wanted to devour Sherlock’s entire being and know every last piece of him. It was amazing that even now, even after all these years, John could still feel this way. That he could ache with want and love, even when he already had it. It was a gift that he could barely allow himself to believe.

Sherlock’s whimper was lost in John’s mouth and the doctor pulled away, pecking one, two, three quick kisses along Sherlock’s jaw.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, his voice gravelly and soft.

“Hm?” Sherlock replied, his eyes fluttering open lazily.

“Take me to bed.”

Sherlock’s eyes roamed the terrain of John’s face for a moment before he smiled, his eyelashes fluttering and hand roaming upward from John’s knee.

“Okay.”


End file.
